Logan shot me a look chock-full of disdain and increased his speed, forcing me to jog just to keep pace with him. “Have you always been this much of an asshole?” I muttered.
It was a rhetorical question, because, yes, Logan had always been this much of an asshole. Especially to me. Back before the world had gone crazy, he’d been the shining star of our small town. And in a town where Friday Night Lights had been the main pastime of nearly every single citizen, Logan had practically been a local celebrity, especially after being awarded a state football scholarship. After that, there’d been no reining in his holier-than-thou ego.
Descending the broken staircase, we wove through a maze of decrepit hallways and crumbling rooms, emerging inside a kitchen—a once striking black and silver room equipped with stainless steel appliances that were now tarnished with rust and coated in filth. My eyes immediately found the eyesore in the center, where furniture had been piled up in front of a door, beyond which I could make out the faint sound of shuffling. The stench of rot tinged the damp air, increasing as we drew closer to the barricade. My nose wrinkled—I might’ve grown accustomed to sharing my world with the dead, but I would never grow accustomed to the smell of them.
Logan headed for the barricade and began dismantling it. The shuffling from behind the door grew louder and more agitated with every piece of furniture he dragged aside.
“They’ve been in there a while,” I murmured, running my fingertip over the countertop, drawing a line through the thick layer of dust. Pausing in front of the refrigerator, I looked over the faded collection of the things hanging there—school photos, a candid family shot, and a business card for a lawn service.TAMING NATURE IS AN ART FORM,it read, causing me to snort. Judging by the current state of things, I thought nature might be inclined to disagree. Continuing my trek through the kitchen, I stopped in front of a wall calendar, opened to the month of April, seven years prior.
“Logan?”
“What?”
“What month is it?”
“May… maybe June. Who the fuck cares?”
I tried to recall the last time I’d known the date. Living the way we did—on the road and in the wild—the only calendar we followed was nature’s.
“You should suit up,” Logan said.
“I’m good.” Tearing my eyes away from the calendar, I joined Logan at the door. Grabbing the length of pipe from my pack, I wrapped both hands around the base and planted my feet.
Logan, having just finished with the barricade, straightened and stared at me. “Suit up, Willow,” he growled.
I met his pointed look with one of equal measure. “I said,I’m good.”
“I’m not opening that door until you’re suited up.”
“You’re not suited up.”
“I’m not the one wearing a tank top, practically begging to get bitten.”
“It’s nine hundred fucking degrees out—what else would I be wearing?”
“We don’t know how many are in there. Even Shamblers can get the drop on you if there are enough of them. So-suit-the-fuck-up.” He said the last part slowly, deliberately punctuating each word.
Knowing that fighting with Logan always proved pointless, I dropped my pipe and jerked angrily out of my pack. Digging roughly through my belongings, I pulled out my gear—a worn leather jacket, a battered pair of leather gloves, and a hockey mask. Only once I was fully suited up did Logan pull his crowbar from his belt. Scooping up my pipe with a snarl, I readied to swing.
“Stop being pissed at me and pay attention,” he commanded.
Stop being pissed at me and pay attention, I mimicked silently.
Logan twisted the knob; the door groaned loudly in protest. He continued twisting and pulling until it flung open with a POP. A blast of hot, putrid air rushed out to greet us as a snarling Creeper stumbled through the open doorway, tripping over Logan’s waiting foot. The Creeper, little more than a bag of bones, broke when it fell, its bones splintering and splitting through its paper-thin skin.
“I wouldn’t be pissed if you’d stop treating me like a kid,” I countered, swinging my pipe. “I’m twenty-three, for fuck’s sake.” The steel collided with the back of the Creeper’s skull, the brittle bone easily giving way. Thick black sludge oozed from the gaping wound, revealing white-gray brain matter. The Vaal Fever, once you were infected, worked quickly to kill you, only to reanimate your brain, even as the rest of your body eventually turned to dust. Despite the working brain, the dead retained no memories of who they’d been; they were nothing more than simple-minded monsters, driven by a singular need—hunger.
“Would it kill you to act like it?” Logan said, just as a second Creeper lurched into the kitchen, taller and larger than the first. Quickly met with Logan’s crowbar in its eye socket, its shrunken, spindly arms reached fruitlessly while Logan shoved the crowbar deeper into its head; the moment the steel punctured its brain, it ceased moving. With a grunt, Logan wrenched the tool from the eye socket and the Creeper’s body dropped to the floor. When nothing else appeared in the doorway, I flipped my mask up.
“Two? I suited up fortwosacks of bones? I bet they didn’t even have teeth.”
With an agitated sigh, Logan moved inside the garage. Glaring after him, I quickly stripped out of my leather gear, stuffing it haphazardly back into my pack before following him in.
The smell of rot and decay doubled inside the dark, dank room, made worse by the stifling heat. Two vehicles sat side by side, both in various states of disarray; on the back wall hung a vast display of neatly hung tools, and on the far wall were several heavy-duty metal shelving units packed full with plastic tubs.Ignoring Logan—who was busy inspecting the wall of tools—I pulled my neck gaiter over my nose and headed for the shelves.
Countless tubs lined the shelves; large sporting equipment hung nearby—a set of golf clubs, a pair of kayaks and matching oars, and a disassembled soccer net. Perusing the shelves, I dragged down a heavy tub, finding it packed full with camping gear—some of which we could use. Setting it aside, I dragged a second tub from the shelves. Wiping the dust from the top, I lifted the lid, revealing a container stuffed to the brim with Christmas decorations. Staring down at them, I found myself lost in a memory.
Dad dressed in his red and green plaid pajamas, mistletoe clutched in his hand, his eyes twinkling as he stares…
… as he stares straight through me, unseeing. A trail of blood runs across his forehead, dripping onto the floor.
I blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that threatened,and slammed the lid shut on the holiday decor. Shoving the tub away, I reached for another, this one labeled: HALLOWEEN.
“Now that’s more like it,” I said, holding up a decorative skeleton with glowing yellow eyes.
“Willow, what the fuck are you doing?” Logan demanded. “You’re supposed to be looking for shit we can use, not playing with toys.”
I scowled at the skeleton in my hand before tossing it aside. “Yes, Sir Dick-a-Lot—right away,” I growled softly.
